


A Toast to the Fallen

by LibraryBandit



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Broyo, Fix It Fic, Gen, and Gil deserves to be sad about his car, and Malcolm deserves to not look like he didn't really care about Gil's feelings, because the Le Mans deserves to be mourned properly, mentions of Jackie, paternal Gil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23585677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraryBandit/pseuds/LibraryBandit
Summary: "Look, kid,” Gil started, his tone garnering a tentative glance from Bright. “I appreciate all this, but the bottom line is... There's no car in the world that's worth your life. Even the Le Mans.” He paused a moment, allowing his words to sink in—or at least gain firm footing. “If I've gotta pick between losing my car and watching you go splat on the sidewalk, car loses. Every time. No contest.”It's nearly midnight post Taylor wedding, but somehow Gil isn't surprised to find Malcolm on his doorstep.He's also not surprised Bright won't let the issue of his Le Mans go. Despite how many times Gil has to tell him he's not taking his money.A short conversation/fix-it fic taking place after episode 13.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94





	A Toast to the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN... I just didn't like how all this business went down in canon, okay? You are cordially invited to headcanon with me that a conversation like this happened off screen. Because Malcolm seemed to not care enough about the car Gil loved, and Gil seemed to care too much about his car compared to Malcolm almost dying. That is all.

The house was quiet enough that Gil heard the knock on his front door from all the way in the bedroom. It was a jaunty little rap against the wood, and he recognized it instantly, smiling even as he shook his head.

_ Bright _ .

It was Saturday night, which usually ended up being laundry night for Gil, as evidenced by the several baskets that currently took up his bed. 

Despite the fact that it was fast approaching midnight, Gil wasn’t tired. If anything, he still had more energy buzzing under his skin he knew what to do with. It always felt like this, after the wrap up of a case. There were details that couldn’t be missed in police reports, details that had to be filed away immediately, lest they be forgotten. He’d gotten an update from both Dani and Bright, who had both filled out their respective police reports in a timely fashion. Malcolm’s was far simpler, as he wasn’t an officer; Dani’s typically took far longer, but she had gotten the most important pieces--her witness statements--in right away. (She always did.)

Based on the sporadic updates he’d gotten from them both, the events of the Taylor wedding had been one for the books. The insanity of this city would never cease to astound him. It had been difficult to relax the rest of the evening, as updates trickled in, in tandem with clips he caught on the news of Bright diving headlong over a table to stop Cal Taylor’s father from taking a bullet. 

And now, even though it was nearly midnight, he wasn’t even slightly surprised to find Bright was standing on his doorstep. As soon as Gil had the door fully open, the warm light from the entryway washed over Bright, who immediately offered up a sheepish little smile and a soft, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," Gil said, not unkindly. He pulled the door open the rest of the way and stood to one side, gesturing for him to come in, which Malcolm did with a grateful little tip of his head. It was cold outside, blustering, and a few stray snowflakes followed him in on the tail of a gust of wind.

"Sorry,” he started, “I would have called, but I figured you were still up, since you responded to my text a half hour ago."

"So you thought you'd invite yourself over," Gil countered wryly, to which Malcolm just offered a one-shouldered shrug.

"I was in the neighborhood.” 

“No, you weren’t,” Gil said. One corner of his mouth darted up in a smile, and Malcolm's expression mirrored it. He offered a hand to take Malcolm's coat; as he started to shrug it off, Gil noticed two things. First, Malcolm was clutching a paper bag in one hand. Its shape was narrowed slightly at the top, the paper crinkled under his grip, like he was holding a bottle by its short neck. Second, he still had his tux on beneath his topcoat.

"You didn't have to dress up for me, kid," Gil teased.

Malcolm didn't quite roll his eyes, but the look he shot Gil was in the same family. "I finished filling out my statement for the Taylor wedding," he started nonchalantly. A little too nonchalantly, Gil thought. After 20 years of knowing Bright, Gil had a pretty accurate read on him most of the time. 

Malcolm continued, "Figured I'd drop by for a minute. Unless you're trying to head off to bed…” There was a playful gleam in Malcolm's eyes that clearly broadcast the unvoiced quip on the tip of his tongue.  _ You ready to turn in for the night, old man? _ Gil snorted lightly through his nose. 

“Don’t even,” Gil mock warned. "Unlike you, I do need sleep to function.” He started back toward the kitchen, and Malcolm followed him. "But I wasn’t quite ready to call it a day yet. What's in the bag?" Malcolm's gaze dipped to the paper bag in his hand, and he scrunched his nose just slightly, as if he had been hoping Gil would deny the detective in him just long enough to delay asking about it. 

Malcolm pulled in a breath and sighed through his nose. "Just a little something I picked up on my way over," he said, clearly trying to keep his tone light. "Thought you could use a little pick me up." Gil kept eyeing him warily, arms folded over his chest, until Malcolm gave in with a sigh and handed him the bag. 

"Holy..." Gil said as he peered inside. "Kid, this is--"

"The least I can do," Malcolm interjected firmly, finishing for him. "Since, you know, I completely obliterated your car this morning. After forcing you to take me to a crime scene."

Carefully, as if afraid he was going to break it, Gil pulled out a rare bottle of Jameson whiskey he knew for a fact cost several hundred dollars. 

“Sorry,” Malcolm said, staring at the bottle with a look of unveiled disappointment akin to a parent whose kid just flashed him a detention slip from school. “It's the best I could find on such short notice.”

Gil shot him a very clear  _ are you insane _ look that Malcolm ignored. “Kid,” Gil said, “I can't accept this.”

A look of panic crowded into Malcolm's eyes before he could stop it, and Gil realized, a little delayed, that it sounded like he was outright rejecting Bright's attempted apology. “It's too much,” Gil clarified firmly.

“It's  _ not _ too much,” Malcolm said. He moved over to the kitchen island, clearly making himself at home, and pulled out a stool. One of its legs was still missing its felt tip, and it gave the same rough squeal as it scraped against the tile that it had been doing since he was a teenager.

Bright sat, waving his hand flippantly as he said, clearly irritated, “That's not even the one I wanted to get you. The store was out of stock.” Gil couldn't help but smile fondly at his tone. In that moment, Malcolm sounded exactly like his mother—a fact Gil decided to keep to himself.

The stool Bright was sitting on was high enough that his feet didn't touch the floor, and he bounced the heels of his dress shoes against the chair's metal legs a few times as he looked up at Gil. “Uh-huh,” Gil said sardonically, side-eyeing him as he moved around to the other side of the island. “That's what worries me. You don't owe me anything.”

Malcolm shook his head almost imperceptibly in disagreement, but Gil still caught it. He knew if Bright had his way, Gil would already have the money to repair the Le Mans sitting in his bank account. (This was precisely why Bright did not have, and would never have, anything resembling Gil's bank account information.) Or a check in his hand—a check Bright knew full well Gil would rip up the second it was handed to him. 

Earlier that morning, after the fateful incident with the landmine, Malcolm had strateg ically waited until the tow truck had loaded up the Le Mans and hauled her off to tell him, privately, that he wanted to pay for all the repairs. But Gil had refused, adamantly, and would keep refusing until it got through the kid's thick skull.

Once, when Bright was thirteen, he had overheard Gil and Jackie discussing a late payment to their mortgage company, and the subsequent fee they were being hammered with. He wasn't supposed to hear that discussion; he was supposed to be in the living room, working on his calculus homework. But the kid had ears like a bat and was sharper than a tack. Few things got past him. 

And perhaps the discussion had gotten a little louder and a little more emotional than either Gil or Jackie had intended. She had been worried, rightly so, about being charged the late fee as penance; it was a penance they couldn't actually afford. The next thing they knew, Malcolm was interrupting them from his place in the hallway, insisting, with tears in his eyes, that he give them the money they needed. Jackie’s heart had shattered on the spot. The discussion was instantly tabled, and Jackie had ushered Malcolm into the kitchen and started pulling out the ingredients to make distraction crumble. 

Malcolm never gave half a damn about his money, when it really came down to it. It was just who he was, and he had a definitive soft spot when it came to Gil. There was a small measure of comfort to be taken in the fact that, as insane as their lives had gotten over the years, some things never changed.

"I'm sorry about the Le Mans,” Bright said abruptly, tugging Gil out of his thoughts. Gil was quiet, taking a moment to move a few residual dishes to the sink, before he turned and started to pull down two whiskey glasses from one of his cupboards.

"I know how much it meant to you," Bright pressed gently. “I know it wasn't just a car.”

His gaze was tenacious, boring into the back of Gil's head until Gil finally turned around and their eyes met. Bright looked at him expectantly, clearly awaiting a reaction of some kind. Reluctantly, Gil gave it to him. 

“I loved that car,” he said through a sigh. The bottoms of the glasses clinked against the quartz counter top as he set them down and slid one across to Bright. 

“I know,” Malcolm said, watching as Gil opened the bottle of Jameson and started to pour. "It might be okay,” Malcolm went on, clearly trying his best to go for optimism, which was not his forte. “They can fix the top of the frame, replace all the glass."

Gil looked doubtful. "I hope so, kid. I'm still waiting to hear back from my insurance agent. But I'm pretty sure I don't have coverage against falling NYPD consultants,” he said wryly.

Malcolm ducked his head, pulling in one corner of his lower lip with his teeth to hide a sheepish smile. He held his glass up and offered up a toast of remembrance, which Gil gladly clinked his glass to. “To the Le Mans,” Malcolm said. “May her restoration be swift.”

“Here, here,” Gil said, and they swapped matching smirks before each taking a sampling sip of Jameson.

Years of knowing Gil Arroyo had trained Malcolm's whiskey palette well, and Malcolm let out an appreciative whistle at the same time Gil gave a little grunt and said, “Oh, yeah. That's the good stuff right there.”

Malcolm chuckled and set his glass down, his gaze drawn to it as the kitchen light directly above him reflected off the dark amber liquid. He pressed his palms gently into each side of the glass, pushing in and turning them until the whiskey inside was moving in a gentle, side-to-side slosh. “I remember going on my first stakeout with you in that car,” he said fondly.

Gil chuckled. “You were always the worst on stake outs.” Malcolm glanced up at him, and Gil clarified. “No patience whatsoever. Always wanted to jump out of the car and go pounding on people's doors so you could ask questions.”

Malcolm gave a one-shouldered shrug, denying nothing. "JT would probably tell you I still am the worst on stakeouts,” he said.

"Oh, he did," Gil said with a wry smile. Malcolm took another sip, and Gil reached over with the bottle to top off his glass before capping the Jameson and setting it aside.

"Look, kid,” Gil started, his tone garnering a tentative glance from Bright. “I appreciate all this, but the bottom line is... There's no car in the world that's worth your life. Even the Le Mans.” He paused a moment, allowing his words to sink in—or at least gain firm footing. “If I've gotta pick between losing my car and watching you go splat on the sidewalk, car loses. Every time. No contest.”

Malcolm let out a slow breath. "I know that," he murmured, but the look that dawned on his face was soft and appreciative.

A moment of silence settled between them, before it was punctured by an uncharacteristically crass curse from Gil. “Shit,” he said, bringing his glass to his lips. “I really did love that car, though.” Curses from Gil were so rare—save the many  _ damn it, Bright _ s that got tossed Malcolm's way these days—that it never failed to make Malcolm smile.

"I know,” Malcolm said, trying to tame his grin as they returned to the sober topic of Gil's beloved car. “It's a part of you.”

"A big part,” Gil agreed. “It's been my dream car since I was younger than you. Jackie finally let me get it for my 40 th birthday.” A far off look drifted into his eyes, and for a moment, he was clearly somewhere else as he stared down into his drink. Somewhere with Jackie. “I didn't know it,” Gil murmured, “But she'd been stashing money away for years, helping me save for it. We used to go for road trips. Take those long, winding upstate New York roads. The Le Mans took them like a dream. It's gorgeous up there in the fall.”

Malcolm just watched Gil's face silently, studying the emotions playing out in his eyes as he slipped back into happier, easier times. Gil huffed out a laugh abruptly and said, “She'd been setting money aside for close to five years. And I'd never caught on once. Some detective, huh?” 

Malcolm huffed a laugh through his nose and shook his head. "She really was the best of the best," he agreed sincerely, before adding with a small smile, "Wife goals."

Gil chuckled at that, nodding. "I sure as hell didn't deserve her," he said, to which Malcolm scoffed lightly. A comfortable silence settled in between them, nestling in between the pauses in their conversation in a way that only happens between two people who have known each other for two decades. "Thanks for the whiskey,” Gil said after a while, holding up his glass.

"It's the least I can do, since you won't let me pay for the damages,” Malcolm said dryly. He gave him a look Gil didn't appreciate in the slightest—a look that said very clearly Malcolm had no intention of actually letting the matter go any time soon.

Gil huffed. "Kid, there's no way I'm taking your money-- _ ever _ \--let alone for this. If my car hadn't been there..." He trailed off, unable to even voice the thought. Malcolm would have been dead, most assuredly, if he'd hit pavement from two stories up. Or at the very least horribly injured, if the bomb vest had been able to offer any protection. 

Unable to stomach the thought anymore, Gil changed the subject slightly. "How's your shoulder?" Despite the bomb vest, Malcolm had taken a hard hit when he landed. He hadn't complained—because as the stubborn, silent sufferer type, he rarely complained, even when it was fully warranted—but as the day went on, Gil caught him rotating his right shoulder when he thought no one was looking, like it was bothering him.

"Not bad," Malcolm said truthfully. Talking about it reminded him of it, and he rolled his shoulder once, chasing a kink out of it. "I think I'd be in the hospital--again--if JT hadn't gotten that vest on me when he did."

“Most likely,” Gil agreed. They both knew it wouldn't have done much to shield him from the force of an actual landmine. But fortunately, they hadn't had to find that out first hand. “Good thing you’ve got your team looking out for you.” They swapped knowing looks. 

“Very good thing,” Malcolm said. 

He didn't stay much later. Despite his poking fun at Gil for potentially wanting to turn in, Bright was clearly exhausted—more so than usual. Likely, the whiskey had put him over the edge. But it took Gil feigning yawns and making pointed glances at the clock above the stove for Malcolm to finally feel tired enough to make a move to leave.

He straightened on his seat, leaning back just slightly to stretch out his upper back. “Kitchen looks nice,” he said through a yawn. “I haven't seen it since the remodel.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gil said, as he glanced back at his cabinets; they had been refaced and repainted nearly a year ago. “You need to get over here more often, kid.”

“I know,” Malcolm said. His voice sounded even, but Gil knew him well enough to detect just a hint of guilt lancing the younger man's voice.

“You're always welcome here,” Gil said gently. “Any time. You know that. Right?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes.”

“And you don't have to bring me whiskey every time you do stop over.”

“Sure.”

“That being said, I'll never turn it away,” Gil said with a grin, and Malcolm huffed out a laugh. His stool squealed again as he pushed it back and hopped off. “Do you need to call a cab?” 

Malcolm shook his head. “I’ve got the one I took waiting out front. I paid the driver to wait for me.” 

Gil shook his head. “Of course you did.” 

Malcolm plucked his topcoat from the coat rack by the door and pulled it on over his tux, which by now he was very eager to get out of. Rare were the occasions when he was actually looking forward to going to bed, but that night was one such night, after all of the day’s insanity (and the whiskey that had warmed his blood and brought a kiss of flush to his cheeks). 

“Goodnight, Gil,” he said. The older man put a hand on his uninjured shoulder and squeezed gently.

“Night, kid.” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, if you made it this far! No beta; we die like men. All mistakes are mine.   
> Drop me a line in the comments, if you'd like! You'd make my day. <3


End file.
